


Land of the Free

by mattzerella_sticks



Series: Season 15 Inspired [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Aromantic Sam Winchester, Band Fic, Brotherly Affection, Chance Meetings, Coda, Dancing, Episode: s15e05 Proverbs 17:3, Falling In Love, Feels, Festivals, Free Will, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Gay Dean Winchester, Hippie Bobby Singer, Hippie Castiel (Supernatural), Hippie Dean Winchester, Hippie Sam Winchester, Hippies, LSD, M/M, Marijuana, Musician Dean Winchester, Musician Sam Winchester, Nature, Nudity, Parental Bobby Singer, Public Nudity, Recreational Drug Use, References to Canon, Skinny Dipping, Soulmates, Woodstock, vans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21519871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks
Summary: Woodstock. 3 days of love, music, and freedom. Dean was excited to attend, not only because it was where he and his brother were set to perform, but because it's what he believes to be the culmination of the counterculture movement.Except, as performers, they don't get much time to do what they want. However Monday morning Dean decides he's going to do what he wanted most - see Jimi Hendrix perform. After trudging through the crowds, mingling with attendees, and reflecting on his life, Dean makes it to the stage. But is Jimi the main event? Or the opening act for a special guest who crashes Dean's party?Anything can happen in the land of the free, because you have the power to make things happen.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Crowley/Bobby Singer, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Season 15 Inspired [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1517543
Kudos: 21





	Land of the Free

**Author's Note:**

> So this was inspired by Dean's quick line in 15x05 when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up - "Jimi Hendrix" - and this idea of s15 Dean struggling with his identity (how much of it is him, how much is Chuck). I decided to really lean into the free will aspect by putting the Winchesters in one of the 'freest' places on Earth - Woodstock, 1969.
> 
> Dean and Sam are the ages they were in s1, for reference.
> 
> This took me FOREVER to complete lol.

Dean stands on his toes, hands cupped over his face to block the sunbeams that happen to break through the nasty blanket of grey clouds covering the sky. Even with the added boost to his already massive stature, he cannot see the stage from where their encampment lies. Probably due to the fact that he sinks in the still fresh mud and he forwent shoes. Or because the crowd spans about the distance of the Atlantic Ocean - from New York to London. Maybe a combination of both or none at all. Placing the blame won’t help him solve it. It was time to act.

“I’m gonna move closer.”

“... _What_?”

He steps back towards their van, turning to his brother. “I said I’m gonna move closer.”

Sam stares up at him from the ground, a fog trapped in his hazel gaze. Oblivious to what Dean told him as he is to the mud streaking his legs and dirtying his pale yellow kaftan. His jaw hangs open until the redheaded chick to his right closes it for him, drawing him into a kiss. Her friend with the pale blonde curls fiddles with Sam’s hair. Threading flowers through it to add to his already bohemian style.

Dean rolls his eyes, tired of watching his brother and the fans he picked up from yesterday continue fondling each other. Hands skimming everywhere - down the curve of ribs and shoulders and teasing hems to trace thighs. In the open fields of Bethel farmland it’s not as irritating. But trapped inside a small space, torrential rain beating on the roof like Mother Nature wanted to join a drum circle, Dean nearly turned square. His breaking point came when the blonde’s fingers tiptoed up his leg towards his crotch and the redhead looked at him with hazy grey eyes. Asked him if he wanted to fool around, too. “Share the love,” she said, “it’s limitless.”

“Thanks,” he said, “but I’m full up on love at the moment.” Then he clambered to the front, sitting with their manager Bobby in the front bench. Bobby offered him his already lit spliff, and together they wore through the night discussing their performance earlier. Accompanied by the gentle rhythms of his brother making love while riding the rainbow bus to Acidtown.

It’s clear Sam remains on his journey further, so he stomped around the van towards the front where Bobby sits.

His legs dangle off the hood of the van, flip flops dangerously close to sliding off his feet. Bobby chats with a stout man in a heavy suede jacket and ruby sunglasses, the aroma of their spliffs wafting in the wind and caressing his face. Past the van’s middle Dean hears the lilting tenor of the other man’s voice and guesses his origin story takes them far from the sweet Americana Dean calls home.

“Hey,” he interrupts them, drawing their focus, “‘M gonna go get closer.”

Bobby huffs smoke through his nose. “Closer where?”

“To the stage,” he points to the flat, wooden square so far off it looks like a diorama. “Can’t see Jimi like this.”

“Who knows if we’ll see Jimi at all,” the Scotsman says, “It’s already Monday and Sha Na Na only finished half-an-hour ago. He might have better things to do.”

Dean glares at him, “How’d you know?”

Bobby cuffs his shoulder, hissing at him. “Be nice boy,” he says, “Crowley here’s a club promoter from England.”

“That right?” Dean says, “What’s a club promoter doing so far from a club then?”

Crowley chuckles, dropping his nub into the mud and snuffing it out with his boot. “Anyone’s who’s _anyone_ is here at the event of the century,” he smirks, “And I _might_ have come with business on the mind… scouting potential acts that could perform at a few places I know could use a fresh injection of talent. Really,” he leans on the hood, close to Bobby’s thigh, “it’s like every group of boys with greasy hair thinks they’re the next _Beatles_. I’m fed up honestly…”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Bobby smiles. The hand that hurt him earlier now squeezes his shoulder proudly. “People think it’s all about the look but if you ain’t got _heart_ … it’s what I tell my boys _constantly_ …”

Dean blanches, trapped by Bobby’s iron grip of pride while he delves into his pitch. About how he grew up with Dean and Sam, teaching them all they knew about music. Being there for when their mom died and taking them in when their dad up and left them. When Dean graduated high school Bobby encouraged Dean to pursue a singing career. “With his honey voice the hardest part wouldn’t be getting a crowd it’d be finding a place to put ‘em all,” Bobby jokes, he and Crowley laughing. “‘Cept the boy said he wouldn’t do it without his brother. That’s why we’re called ‘The Family Business’. Second young Sam graduated we hitched onto the road and began making a name for ourselves.”

“You’ve done a remarkable job of it,” Crowley says, “not many men like us are willing to drop out of it all so far into the game.”

“Wasn’t very much _in_ it to begin with,” he shrugs, “I knew this was the kind of scene my boys needed to grow and… well, didn’t hurt I agree with a lot of what’s been preached.”

“Amen, man. _Amen_.”

They dig into their favorite aspects of the counterculture movement with Dean as their prisoner, forced to listen as they try to decide which was better - the drugs or the sex. Seeing Bobby so open while discussing these topics always amazes Dean, since only a few years ago was he the total opposite. Surly, stuck in his ways, and laced tighter than a football, past Bobby wouldn’t recognize the free spirit with the same name.

Then again, Dean thinks the same would happen if he met his former self.

He finds his reflection in the front mirror, studying how his hair parts down the middle and curls, framing his face and dusting his shoulders. Similar to Bobby’s but unlike his brother’s, Sam’s hair so long he sits on it from time to time. He would trade it all to grow a beard, though. Bobby and Dean have no problem doing so, his chin smothered by the rusty hairs sprouting from it. Years since Bobby tossed his shaving kit at a bar outside Portland and yet Sam can’t manage more than fuzz.

It’s wildly different from what he began with, but the long hair suits him. As do his clothes. He rubs his worn suede vest between his fingers, watching the fringe dance and tickle his exposed chest. Wearing shirts became such a hassle once Dean learned they weren’t required in his new community, much like shoes. His closet shrunk considerably to a few jackets and vests, pants, and a similar kaftan to Sam’s but in dark green.

The only plaid Dean sees regularly covers the picnic tables at parks where they sometimes perform.

Dean catches Crowley’s stare in the window and returns to the conversation. They’ve circled back to talking about _him_ . “You and your brother really capture part of the _spirit_ of the movement,” he says, “I bet if you stick a plastic in a room with one of your records you’d convert him before the finale.” A blush settles across Dean’s face, compliment sitting weird in his stomach. Accepting praise was hard for Dean, ironic given his chosen path, but he improves upon it day by day.

“I’d love to see that,” Bobby crows, swaying, “A suit walks in and after an hour the door opens, puff a smoke, and he’s gone native. The power of music, man!”

A weight lifts from him and Dean sighs in relief. Bobby fumbles in his pockets for a lighter, Crowley’s waiting spliff delicately perched between his fingers.

“Like I said,” Dean steps away, jerking his thumb backwards, “I’m gonna get a closer look.”

“Don’t get too lost in the music, boy!” Bobby says, lighting Crowley’s spliff. Dean watches Crowley exaggerate a hit and blow his smoke at the other man. Bobby grins and breathes in deeply. “That some special kind of mary jane from across the pond?”

Crowley plays with Bobby’s loose tie, batting it every which way. “Once this whole scene wraps up I’d be more than happy to share some of my stash with you…”

Dean hurries into the crowd, glad that the gleeful raucousness drowns out their flirting. Sam and his fans were one thing, but Dean isn’t at the level where he can comfortably listen to his father figure flirt. At least he escaped. Once, in a party along Haight-Ashbury, Dean’s arms and legs were too heavy from the strong weed he smoked. Plastered between a burly bear and a bendy brunette. An unwilling audience member to Bobby dancing, off-beat, with a man around his age. Luckily unconsciousness dragged him under when their bodies were flush against one another. When he woke up though Dean immediately recognized the shorts Bobby wore that night.

He shakes the image from his mind, preferring his senses to overload with the immersive wonder of Woodstock. Festival goers were not dampened by the weather or their dull environment, bringing the rainbow from the sky and painting the field with it.

Squeezing past a small crowd sliding and laughing in the mud, Dean empties into a man-made clearing. Able to stretch Dean does so. He reaches to the sky, delighting in the satisfying _crack_ of his joints. Swinging his arms, Dean looks around at the festival.

Closer to the stage, the crowd thinned out. Since Woodstock technically ended last night, a mass exodus occurred in the middle of the storm. Those that stuck around, however, acted like leaving wasn’t an option they considered. Instead they carry on like Friday never ended. Dancing without any music. They talk, building friendships where there was only mud. Existing without any of the facade people are grown to wear, having shed those burdens at the gate. For this weekend, in a crowd filled with love and total ecstasy, shame dies.

It’s Dean’s favorite thing about hitching his cart to this movement. Freedom. Freedom in a community. Freedom of the self. To be, uninhibited by the rigid structures forcing him to be _one_ thing. A skin he never felt comfortable wearing.

He grew up somewhat privileged. With cheekbones from his ma and the strong jaw of his father, he had the humble visage of the ideal small town, All-American boy. Dean’s face could hang in a museum as the total summation of the midwest. Except a frozen smile could never capture the struggle he experienced. Bullied for having a dead mother and an absent father. For clothes that had more holes in them than they were supposed to. Ostracized completely save for when his tormentors decided to leave him alone because a boy shades darker than him happened by. A horrible reason to be grateful, but back then Dean’s familiarity with civil rights ended at the definition.

Dean didn’t know much of anything.

Like why, when other boys spent their high school years getting frisky in the cabins of their trucks Dean stayed in and trained his hands to play the grooviest tunes. Offers to experience what went on at drive-ins were bountiful. He never felt the need to harvest.

But being on the road expanded Dean’s understanding of the world, and he grew. Meeting people and hearing their stories helped him see the shallowness of the life he led. Twenty years of enforcing a broken system.

Music was only one way he fought against it. Dean marched against war on the West and for equality in the South. Sometimes, though, it’s not enough. Feels too little too late. Like no matter how hard he rages against the machine it won't change a bit.

Woodstock almost makes him forget how crushing reality is. Seeing people of all ages and races literally weather a storm together and come out the other side smiling gives Dean hope that more people can break from the invisible hand and carve their own path.

A static crackle blares across the speakers, drawing him from his own thoughts. “How are all you beautiful people feeling this groovy Monday morning?” one of the festival’s managers asks the crown. After a roaring response, he chuckles. “Right on. Now, we’re almost ready to welcome Jimi to the stage. But before we do, I want to thank everyone who made this weekend possible. From the wonderful brothers and sisters in Bethel, to the musical guests, those who already left and those who stayed. I can tell you one thing… we’ve definitely made our mark in _history_!”

Dean cheers, wrapped up in the frenzy. A woman to his right yells so loudly her friends lift her into the sky so everyone can hear.

The manager dips below the stage, allowing the crew to scurry and continue with their work. Energy flows through the crowd and shocks everyone, Dean’s grin stretched wide enough to hurt. His small reprieve ebbs away since people flood the small circle he found. It doesn’t matter, though. Engaging with the crowd is exactly what Dean wants. He dives in happily.

Dancing around people, Dean’s body feels lighter and looser. Like he huffed some helium between the spliff tokes he survived off of all weekend. Even his voice sounds squeaky.

A group sit haphazardly by a van, paired off with paintbrushes in their hands. Dean catches the eye of a redhead as she finishes drawing a flower onto the nipple of her friend. She beckons him over, “You want something?”

He nods. Dean sits where the brunette did, glad for the thin, dirty blanket protection. The girl asks what he wants. “Surprise me,” he says.

“Hold out your hands.”

Dean flattens his palms face up across his knees, letting his new artist friend turn him into her latest creation. He stares at her red curls, shielding her face and his hands from view. Left in suspense as to what she’s creating, Dean focuses instead on his aura. How it radiates off him and intertwines with the redhead girl and everyone else who stumbles by. It glows from being surrounded by such wondrous souls, those who found their way here on their own time and with their own thumbs. Given how busy Dean’s schedule was he could barely play like everyone else.

They rolled into Bethel late. Stuck behind massive pile-ups until a passing farmer showed them a hidden path that would take them where they needed. Strewn with rocks and gravel, their van took a massive beating. But they arrived Friday evening in the middle of the festival.

Immediately they were shown to the organizers who briefed them in a whirlwind. By the time they finished he, Sam, and Bobby were given a room key and a wrangler named Kevin. “I’m here to make sure you get to where you need to be without any hiccups!”

He wasn’t any older than Sam. Hair curling at the collars, he looked fresh from his plastic container. “I’m a volunteer,” he explained, “Figured it’d be fun while I’m between semesters at Columbia.”

Dean and Sam exchanged glances, confirmation that their shadow hadn’t much colored outside the lines. Between rehearsals they goaded him to cut loose, offering him spliffs or tugging on his button-down. “No,” Kevin refused, “I have a job to do.”

Sam frowned, hand limp around his collar. “What about after?”

“What?”

“After we perform?” Sam asks, smirking, “Will you still have a job then?”

Kevin paused, considering his next words carefully. “I… I guess, maybe not -”

“Perfect!” Sam crowed, dragging him into a stiff hug, “We’ll pick up then!”

Plan set, the rest of Friday was spent in the company of whoever knocked on their motel door. They weren’t forced to stay there, but Bobby surprisingly pinned on a sheriff’s badge. Upholding the law when all they wanted was to break it.

“Joplin and Baez are just hanging out there!” Sam argued, “And I heard the Dead are hosting an acid party with the Pranksters!”

Bobby shook his head. “No, you still have half your set list to go through.”

“They’re all songs we’ve played a million times before,” Dean said, “If we leave for an hour or two - Ravi Shankar’s about to start and I heard listening to it live, in a crowd, turns you on in a way that can’t compare, baby! Sure to be a right gas!”

They were denied, and sulked by their respective instruments. Bobby sighed, kneading his temple. “Listen, I’m sorry you can’t do the things you wanna but you need to practice.”

“Why?” his brother asked, “None of the other acts are!”

“Because they didn’t get here on a rabbit’s paw of luck.” Bobby shuffled towards his duffle, scooting Kevin towards the nearby chair and dug around in it. “Out of everyone performing, ‘The Family Business’ is the freshest group. Tomorrow could open a whole new world for you. Induct you into the collective unconscious, hell… tribes could use your music when journeying towards enlightenment. Everyone who plays here will be remembered, now what do you want history to say?”

His speech sobered them considerably, both brothers guiltily fiddling with their instruments. Sam plucked a few sad notes on his bass. “Sorry, Bobby,” he said, “we get how important this is and… we want to crack open everyone’s mind tomorrow!”

“Now that’s the spirit!” Bobby laughs, having found what he looked for. “After you play you can trade beads and flowers with everyone else. Tonight, it’s us. But… we can still have our own fun.” He displays the purple-and-green glass blown bong, grin so wide his eyes disappear in his wrinkles. “Now who wants to be a good boy and stuff my bowl?”

Friday they smoked and played, preparing for Saturday. He woke to a frantic Kevin frantically circling his family, saying they should have been at the stage thirty minutes ago. His panic rose during their exit, passive aggressively commenting on their molasses pace. “Seriously,” he said, snatching Dean’s guitar from him, “If my mom were here she’d hurl you into your van at the pace you’re going…”

Sam sidled up to him, frowning. “He really needs to drop.”

“And get laid.”

“One problem at a time, Dean.”

They arrived without judgement, no one hassled that they arrived an hour after they said they would. Van parked between two tour buses, their group was shuttled towards a tent behind the massive stage. “You’ll be waiting here until you perform -”

“And after?”

Kevin shrugged. “You’re free to do whatever you want.”

Showtime hung like the stars, seemingly out of reach. They were able to bide their time, however, with the other acts placed in their tent. Sam missed Baez but Joplin welcomed him with open arms, running her fingers through his hair in astonished wonder. She brought Santana over and put their hair through a series of competitions to declare a winner. Dean watched bits and pieces, but bided his time elsewhere. Jefferson Starship heard of their band and kept him on his toes with the many questions they asked. Luckily their manager herded them to their tour bus for a quick rest and offered a short reprieve. He snuck a few calming breaths, meditating, when his empty mind rattled with calls for his band to migrate over to the stage.

“This is it, Dean,” Sam whispered on their way out, “can you believe it?”

“No,” Dean told him, “I can’t. In fact the second I play my opening chord I’m sure we’re gonna be in the van at Big Sur, coming down from that powerful trip.”

“That was pretty strong acid,” Sam chuckled, clapping him on the back, “Don’t know where Bobby got it… all I remember was trying to eat my own hair.”

“I chased seagulls asking for kisses.”

His nerves calmed further, brotherly banter distracting Dean nicely. Bobby waited for them by the stairs, tossing up a peace sign. “Give ‘em love, boys.”

Dean mirrored his gesture, climbing the stairs. He and Sam found their spots, attendants waiting to lower microphones to their instruments. Dean briefly glanced into the crowd. Amazed by the thousands of eyes staring up at them he nearly fell off his stool.

Totally alone on stage, Dean unfurled a wide grin. “Hello Woodstock!” he yelled, “How’re we all feelin’?” A chorus answered him, sweeter than any music he played. The sun started setting and cast the world in a soft orange. “Groovy,” Dean said, strumming his guitar, “my name’s Dean, and this is my brother Sam.”

“Howdy.” Sam’s thumb brushed against one string and then another in a hypnotic melody.

“We’re ‘The Family Business’,” he continued, “and we want to welcome all you here with us now to join our family. Because to us… family don’t end with blood.” Dean segued into their first song, voice echoing across the field.

They carved eternity in the forty-five minutes they had the stage for. Songs flowed into each other, at times Dean not realizing they moved on until halfway into the second chorus. By the time he noticed ‘Crossroads’ was over they had reached the bridge for ‘Heaven’s Plan’. At some point Dean remembered watching he and Sam play from above. As if he leapt from his body to capture the moment like a Hollywood camera. He floated back during the goodbyes, where they thanked everyone one last time. Sam strummed them off stage, crooning the lyrics to ‘Jessica’ even though no one could hear.

Bobby jumped the moment their feet hit grass. Crushes in a hug, he pressed kisses to their cheeks. “You boys blew it out of the water!” Cheers, whistles, and claps followed them all the way to the tent.

Kevin greeted them inside, “That was amazing!” he said, “I mean, I knew from listening to you guys practice but it sounded so much… _purer_ out there.”

“Pure, brother,” Dean swung his arm around Kevin’s shoulders, “Exactly.”

He squirmed under the heavy weight, eyes darting frantically around the space. “You don’t need me anymore,” he told them, “I’m sure I have to help elsewhere-”

Bobby shook his head. “I asked, they said your duty was up, too.”

“It is?”

“Which means,” Sam grabbed a spliff from a random woman and inhaled, “we’re picking up where we left off.” He held it towards Kevin and waved it around. Tempting their college student. “Come on,” Sam drawled, leaning closer, “join us in the clouds, man.”

Kevin squinted at him. “I… I’m not…”

Dean dragged Sam away by the collar of his kaftan, giving Kevin a breather. “Listen,” he started, “smoke, don’t smoke - the choice is yours. It’s called free will, baby. But you don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

His soft sell worked. Kevin accepted the smoking spliff and took a drag. Then immediately hacked up a lung.

Sam squeezed his shoulder. “Everyone coughs. It stops after a while.”

“It - _hackhackhack_ \- does?”

“Eventually.”

While inducting Kevin into the lifestyle of the free and freaky was a noble effort, it meant they spent their Saturday night babysitting a blossoming flower child. A few puffs in and sweet Mary Jane showed Kevin a whole new world.

Dean and Sam listened as Kevin rattled off facts and numbers that flew over their heads. Bobby left beforehand, spared this fate by doing his job. Finding managers and record produces and speaking up the Winchester brothers.

With the smaller hand ticking towards one, the tent emptied until only the three of them remained. Sam nodded off, still as a statue of Buddha. Dean’s eyes drooped every few seconds, kindness keeping him awake. Kevin droned on nearby, no sign of stopping. He stared at his feet praying for heavenly intervention.

Dean blinked, and a daisy appeared from nowhere. Attached to it was a girl with brown skin and a pink peasant blouse. She offered him a dazzling smile along with the flower, swaying on the spot.

“Wow,” Kevin whispered, “you’re pretty…”

Lightning struck his mind. “What’s your name? Daisy?”

She giggled, twirling the daisy between her fingers. “Alicia.”

“Alicia,” Dean nodded, “meet my friend Kevin.” He elbowed him in the side, “Say hi, Kevin.”

“H-hello.”

“Kevin,” Alicia said, passing the daisy along from Dean to him, “That’s a cool name.”

“Thanks,” Kevin shrugged, “I think so, too.” He accepted the flower and stuck it in his ear. They stared at each other for far longer than Dean liked.

He pushed Kevin to stand. “Why don’t you two explore the grounds. Maybe find a barn to spend the night in.”

Kevn whipped around, eyes widening. “A-a barn?”

“To _cuddle_.”

Alicia twined hers and Kevin’s fingers together, keen on the idea. She led him towards the exit, Dean wishing them luck. Confident they were alone, Dean shoved Sam to the ground. He awoke mid-snore. “What?”

“Get up,” Dean said, “let’s get out of here.”

“ _Right on_.”

They didn’t get far. A few yards from the tent Bobby found them. “There you are,” he said, “you ain’t gonna believe the night I had.”

“Later Bobby,” Dean waved him off, “Sam and I are gonna mingle with the crowds -”

“Better chance at mingling with the sheep,” he told them, “you two can barely walk in a straight line.”

“But -”

“No,” he pushed them to their van, “sleep. We can spend all of Sunday making up for lost time.” The brothers barely fought him, instead compromising that if they turned in Bobby would drive the van elsewhere. Dean fell asleep to the soft rocking of their van taking them to the people.

If only he didn’t wake up with Sam’s feet in his face. His big toe greeted Dean, too close to his nose for comfort. Dean rolled to the other side, groaning. “Christ, Sam!”

“What?”

He forgot what he said next, a crash of thunder drowning him out and making his head rattle. The brothers shot up, van rocking by the suddenness of the sound. Bobby sighed from the front seat, lighter flickering. “‘Bout time you boys joined us.”

“What was that?”

“What did you think it was, Dean?”

He rolled his eyes. “How long’s it been raining?”

“Most of the morning,” Bobby said, flame steady in his hand. Bringing it close he lights his spliff, savoring the earthy flavor. “Lucky you boys performed when you did. Stage is slick and waterlogged, pushed everything back.”

“And the festival?”

“Going on, same as ever.” He peered through the window, “Some folks are brave enough to weather the storm but a lot of people are waiting it out in tents and vans, like us.”

They spent most of Sunday in the van. Escaping in bursts when the rain stopped or slowed to a drizzle. Chatting up the attendees who passed their van. Dean fell into a lengthy conversation with a Bethel resident whose curiosity urged him to investigate. He explained as best he could what their movement meant, however difficult since capturing the full scope was limited by using only one medium. Meanwhile Sam drew girls like bare skin brought out mosquitos. Every glance at his brother showed him communing with a new face, serenading her with his guitar.

Ultimately the weather worsened and Sunday closed with Dean stuck in a van getting high while his brother got off.

Dean thanks every deity in the sky for giving him Monday. A taste is better than nothing.

“I’m done.”

He opens his eyes to find a pair of crystal blue staring at him. The redheaded girl grins with flecks of yellow and pink flecked across her cheeks like freckles. “So,” she continues, “what do you think?”

“Far out,” he mirrors her expression, inspecting the additional eyes closer. Dean chuckles, back of his hands over his face. “How do I look?”

“Like living art.”

Fingers curl briefly imitating a blink and draws more laughter from the both of them. He slides his hands to his lap and looks at them again. “Whose eyes are these by the way?”

She shrugs, doodling on her wrist. “The eyes of your soulmate.”

A power chord rocks Dean’s chest. Briefly he considers his artist friend the source of it, except another blares across the fields. Dean turns and sees Jimi tuning his guitar on stage. “I need to go -”

“Wait!” She stops him, digging inside a nearby satchel. Pulling a green bandana from it, she ties it around Dean’s neck. “Fab.”

“Thanks.” Nodding, Dean stumbles to his feet and sets off for the stage.

The crowd bunches together, each vying for Jimi’s attention. Screaming and laughing and belting different songs from his canon. Dean squeezes between two oak-like men and finds a cozy spot off to the right. He sees Jimi finish tuning and strum smoothly on his guitar, nodding to the music.

A calming hush rushes across the field when Jimi holds his hand high, pick glinting in the faint sunlight. Then he brings it down and plays.

Dean’s smile stretches wider than ever when the opening notes to ‘Message to Love’ roll over him, filling his heart enough to burst. It’s the perfect song to start his set with, capturing Woodstock’s entire vibe. Knocked back by the pure strength of Jimi’s message Dean stumbles but doesn’t fall. His limbs sway to the melody, feet sliding through the mud while he dances.

Around him, one by one, people join in the celebration. Gazes locked on Jimi but their bodies bobbing of their own volition. Expanding physically to match their spirits.

For the first three songs Dean exists in Nirvana. Nothing could describe the pure wonder coursing through his veins from hearing Jimi live.

His head swings to the side, and he opens his eyes.

Dean freezes. Jimi’s on his fourth song and a string breaks. To Dean it sounds like the universe snapping into place while cosmos erupt in colors around him.

A man, in the midst of a frenzy, creates space for himself in the muddy fields. Dark curls bounce to the rhythm, arms raised to the sky and bunching his rainbow colored poncho halfway up his chest. The lone piece of garment barely shielded his modesty, and with more dirty flesh exposed Dean greedily studies it. The sharp angles of his tanned skin on full display. Happy trail leading to a crown of pubes with a soft, thick cock nestled inside.

He turns and faces Dean, eyes opening. The sight of a familiar color causes him to suck in a deep breath.

 _Crystal blue._ “The eyes of your soulmate.”

Gravity brings them closer. Dean strolls across space and time to meet the other man. They’re barely an inch apart, the smell of cloves and weed tickling his nose. ‘Red House’ accompanies their meeting. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

His thumb brushes against the other man’s scruffy cheek, and Dean smiles at him. “You look so pretty.”

“Your face is covered in stars,” he tells Dean, “I like stars.”

“I like you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I feel like I do,” Dean says, “like I have.”

He glances at the stage briefly. “Let’s dance.”

Dean nods, grinning with a soft adoration. Body pressed against each other they give into the music engulfing them. Overpowered by his senses, Dean feels lost in a raging storm of ecstasy. Jimi’s voice cutting across the air and into his heart. The electric-hot touch of the stranger with Dean’s painted eyes. How his poncho shifts in the dance, colors hypnotically drawing him closer. Marijuana burning in bushels all around him, compounding his already strong high.

Laughing, Dean brings his hands up to the other mans’ face and compares the eyes. “Like a photograph.”

“How did you capture my likeness so well?” he asks.

“I didn’t,” Dean says, “Some fortune-telling painter-chick gave me ‘em. She’s a palm reader and a palm Picasso!”

Chuckling at his observation, the man twirls around Dean. Kicks mud up, without care that it lands on other nearby dancers. They’re oblivious to it, too caught up in the moment. Dean spins in place, the other man moving so fast he splits into copies.

Unable to keep up Dean trips on his own feet and crashes into the stranger, rocketing them both into the mud. He twists and lands on his back, squished between the mud and the stranger. ‘Izabella’ carries on like it should.

Dean groans, a meek sound lost in the heavy electric chords. The mud seeps through his vest and jeans, coating him thoroughly.

Falling doesn’t dim the light shining in the other’s crystal blue eyes. Instead they crinkle with mirth, legs spreading wide to straddle Dean. “If you wanted I’m sure we could find a tent somewhere nearby.”

He waits for when Jimi switches between songs to answer. “You enough of a prude you wouldn’t do it out in the open?”

“I’d do it on a stage, baby, I’d do it at Wrigley Field in front of a thousand fans,” he smirks, “All I care about is the who and the what.”

“Man, I’d love to get freaky,” Dean says, “but this is _Jimi Hendrix_ . _Live._ When am I gonna get this chance again.”

Understanding flashes in his gaze, the other man’s fingers scratching at his bare stomach. “Like two ships passing in a harbor,” he says, “never may they meet again.” His words jostle Dean’s spirit, a hidden layer poking through that gives them bite. Dean wants to ask further, but Jimi returns to his calling with ‘Gypsy Woman’.

The stranger stands, pushing himself up and offering a mud-covered hand to Dean. He takes it. Surprised when he lifts Dean to his feet with ease. Something warm and wet presses against his shoulder, squeezing it. Dean’s gaze darts over to find his other hand resting there. When he pulls away he leaves a reminder of his touch on Dean’s skin. If Dean squints the flesh looks almost puckered, like the mud branded him.

“Come on,” he says, “we were dancing?”

Dean nods because nothing else comes to mind.

They groove to the next few songs, slowly shutting out the world around them until only they and Jimi’s voice exists. He came to watch Jimi but the other man with his dark curls and crystal blue eyes inspire more devotion. It’s heresy and madness and worship and fulfillment.

Jimi switches into an unfamiliar tune, Dean pausing as the music slams against his mind. Forcing a connection that cannot be found. Up on stage Jimi steps towards the microphone and sings, “O say can you see… by the dawn’s early light…”

“How brilliant,” the stranger’s rich baritone rumbles at his side, “the ‘ _Star Spangled Banner_ ’. Here.”

Dean’s nose scrunches. “Why’s he singing that song? This ain’t no little league game.”

“Think about it,” he whispers, face cracking in half because of his excitement. “This song isn’t just about America. It’s about her victory. Playing it here, Jimi’s saying that we - America’s _future_ \- have landed a victorious blow against the straight-laced freaks and pigs who want to try and control us. That Woodstock’s accomplished its goal of inspiring a whole freakin’ generation, man. We’re a movement with momentum. And we’re powering forward to show we don’t need nine-to-fives or organized religion or pretend structures that only fuel disenfranchisement. We have what we need right here!”

His speech, alongside Jimi’s psychedelic rendition of America’s anthem, struck a match inside Dean. It lit up a short fuse and forced an explosion. Dean surges forward and embraces the stranger, tangling fingers in his mussed up hair. His other hand skims the stranger’s lower back.

Rising to his level of passion, he throws his arms over Dean’s shoulders and squeezes. One leg rises to wrap around his waist, soft cotton the only barrier between their crotches.

They fool around during the entire song. Teetering the entire time, in danger of collapsing again if either poured more of their energy into the kiss. His leg falls and the stranger’s stance opens wide, allowing for Dean to slip a knee into the open space. The hand teasing his lower back dips lower and squeezes the perky globes of the stranger’s ass. Dean dare not dip his fingers in. However the stranger slides his hand down and into the waistband of Dean’s pants, two fingers sliding up and down the crack of his ass. He keens at the touch, grinding against the stranger.

“O’er the land… of the _free_ … and the home… of the… _brave_ …”

Raucous cheering startles them from their position, Dean gulping lungful of airs while their foreheads are still connected. He stares into the stranger’s crystal blue eyes, diving deep within those refreshing pools and soaks up all the love he finds.

The stranger steps away, and a cold breeze makes Dean shiver. ‘Purple Haze’ plays in the background while he fiddles with his poncho. “I wish I didn’t have to leave…”

Seven should be a lucky number, but those the exact number of words Dean needs for his heart to crumble into dust. “You do?”

He nods, misery painted across his features. Like he didn’t want their time to end either. Except some scheming author watches them overhead, pen ready to write them out of each other’s lives as easily as he made them meet.

Dean won’t let go so easily. “Will I ever see you again?”

The stranger shrugs, fiddling with the tassels of his poncho. Suddenly light breaks through the storm clouds on his face. He tugs something from under his outfit - a leather cord around his neck tied to a shiny blue pendant. Removing it, he reaches for Dean’s hand and drops it in. Curling Dean’s fingers around this. “To remember me and this… magical morning.”

Following his lead Dean unties his gifted bandana with his other hand and gives it to the stranger. “The same.”

He takes the bandana and squeezes it tight, his smile a sad reflection of its earlier state. Stranger kisses Dean’s cheek and walks backward, holding onto him until it’s impossible. Their arms limply fall to the side.

His gaze never breaks all while he walks backwards, uncaring if he bumps into others. Dean watches him disappear into the retreating crowds, swallowed up. Like he was never there at all. For a moment he considers the entire experience a strange hallucination, but the heavy weight in his hand tethers him to the truth.

Finally alone Dean focuses his entire attention on Jimi. Except he cannot match the same level of excitement he held earlier at the start of the show.

No one can. Only a few people are still dancing, audience thinned considerably during the show. Monday fully settled into the collective unconscious and the end of Woodstock cannot be ignored any longer.

Dean waits for ‘Purple Haze’ to wrap up. Then he leaves. Trudges alongside other attendees away from the stage to where his family waits.

Their van hadn’t moved, two lone figures standing nearby. Sam’s girls abandoned him but the dreamy smile remains on his face while he tries to find the hole for his kaftan. An assortment of numbers were scribbled on his bare-skin, some smudged and others hidden by the mud. Bobby, also deserted by his foreign friend, looks similarly rumpled with shirt buttoned incorrectly and a flip flop missing.

Woodstock offered many experiences.

Bobby jerks his thumb at the van. “Come on, we got to burn rubber, boys.”

Dean nods, moving towards the van. In such a daze, he doesn’t feel the grip on his wrist until he jerks to a stop. His foster father by way of manager examines him curiously. “You okay son?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” he continues, “You have a fun time?”

A soft smile curls his lips. “What I had. It was… _indescribable_.”

“Well… right on, then.” Bobby claps him on the back twice, mud splattering. “I dig.”

Dean enters through the backdoor, Sam already inside. He sits cross-legged on dirty and rucked up blankets, strumming his bass. Dean squeezes between a few bags and his guitar, rubbing his eyes. A yawn forces itself from his chest, and Dean stretches. The stranger’s pendant falls from his palm. Saved from the van’s floor by the cord being tied around dean’s first two fingers.

Sam stares at it, transfixed. “Wow,” he whispers, “that’s really pretty… Where’d you get it.”

Dean brings the pendant higher up, so he can look at it. Seeing it reminds him of crystal blue eyes and helps quiet the negative energy swirling inside. “My soulmate gave it to me,” he says, putting it on, “Groovy?”

“Definitely groovy,” Sam agrees, smirking, “but wait until you see what _my_ soulmate gave me.” He tugs at his already wide collar to reveal a circular, purplish bruise above his nipple. “And what my _other_ soulmate gave me…” This continues until he reaches his tenth soulmate, Dean laughing himself into a fit.

Bobby bangs on the roof. “Quit your hollering you two,” he says, “I need to focus otherwise I’m gonna hit somebody.”

“You’re not gonna hit anybody -”

“We’re not even moving -”

“Somebody light me some grass?” he asks, “I’m not ready to be sober again.”

Sam sets his bass down, digging around for their supplies. Dean sits and lets the family moment soak into him, hoping the added positive influences of the other two will curb the swirling vortex of darkness in his heart.

He twists the pendant around and thinks of crystal blue eyes and Jimi Hendrix. Then he whispers a quiet prayer that the universe will give them another harbor to cross. Someday soon they _will_ meet again.

_Epilogue_

Summer means long days, and Dean thanks the sizzling heat that there’s at least another hour before the sun sets. Right now beams cut through leaves and dance on the ground, highlighting rocks and blades of grass and the scattered clothes Dean and Sam left when they bounded for the lake. Sam’s long strides make him the winner, and he jumps in completely naked. Dean follows in his own birthday suit.

Bobby treks at his own pace, grumbling all while collecting their muddy clothing. “You two are animals,” he jokes, smirking, “Who raised you?”

They answer like they always do. “You did!”

And like always Bobby hides his pride behind rolling eyes and airy snickers. He reaches the edge of the lake, water lapping at his feet. “Go on you human fish,” he says, “ _swim_.” Then Bobby begins to remove his own dirty outfit, joining his boys in their nakedness.

Sam darts away immediately like the poorly trained golden retriever he is. Halfway across the small lake in the minute it takes Dean to sink into a crouch. While his brother expends the reservoir of energy that normally follows after a trip, Dean focuses his breathing and chooses to meditate. Takes in calm and shoves off the past few maddening hours trapped inside the van.

Tries to forget that in the time spent trying to leave Bethel they still haven’t left the area.

They didn’t have anywhere important to be but stuck in unmoving, cramped quarters was dead last on their list. His gigantic brother couldn’t find comfort no matter how he lay in the van, and actually cared about it. Every shift meant another part of his body connected with Dean’s. A hand to his chest, shoulder to shoulder, knee in his side and foot to his face.

“Seriously,” Dean spat, strangling Sam’s ankle, “Do that one more time and the next time you wake up you’ll be looking like a plastic yuppie.”

Sam gasped. “You wouldn’t do that!” he cried, tugging on his hair, “You can’t -”

“I _won’t_ if you’d stop moving -”

“But _I_ need to or I’ll die!” Sam whined, knocking his head against a pillow, “Can’t you go sit up front with Bobby.”

Bobby shot the suggestion down quickly. “Either one of you come up here and you’ll regret it.” He sprawled across the bench, using the lengthy breaks between inching forward to relax.

Their bickering carried on, filling the van with its discordance. Until finally they happened upon the not-road they used to arrive in Bethel. Bobby jumped in his seat, spinning the wheel last second. Dean flew into Sam, brothers collapsing into a heap once the van settled on the bumpy road.

“This time you can’t blame me,” Sam mumbled, Dean’s hair in his face, “you were the one who moved.”

Although they found a clear path to the open road the bad vibes persisted. Until suddenly Bobby hit the brakes at the mouth of a clearing. “Bobby,” Dean coughed, “what are you -”

“We need fresh air,” he said, “Get some good juju in us. So out. Both of you.”

Sam raised a brow. “I thought the plan was to stay on the road until we were in, like, Ohio?”

“That plan was barely salvageable,” he said, fiddling with his lighter, “but if you want to keep moving… then I _guess_ we can skip the lake -”

They hurried from the van without thought.

A splash disturbs Dean. He opens one eye to see Sam treading water next to him. A waterlogged, dopey grin plastered to his face like the strands of hair on his forehead. “What?” he asks.

“Is that all you’re gonna do?”

“What else do you _want_ me to do?”

“I’m bored,” Sam whines, kicking his legs and creating more waves in his tantrum, “Play with me or something.”

Dean sighs, “What are you? Five?”

“You’re five. We’re _all_ five,” Sam says, “Compared to everything else on this planet humanity’s still going through our terrible twos. So act _your_ age, Dean.”

He can’t argue with that. Although he takes offense when Sam slams his leg and splashes Dean with a tidal wave. Spluttering, Dean wipes at his face. “Do you not have any control of your legs, man?” Sam doesn’t respond. Dean peeks at his brother, Sam silently gaping at him. “ _What_?”

“How can you cry like that?”

Dean frowns, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. His brother trails fingers down his eyes, tapping at his chin when he reaches it.

He touches his cheek, blue staining his skin when he pulls away. A memory ripples across the placid waters of his mind, reminding him of the painting he commissioned. _The eyes of your soulmate_. His heart beats to the tune of ‘The Star Spangled Banner’.

Dean watches the blue paint melt off his skin like small rivers. Imagines the phony tears smeared across his cheeks. Again those crystal blue eyes left him. His hand instinctually fondles the pendant.

Sam lumbers up to him. “Quit being such a drag Dean.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, “Let me ride this one out.”

There’s no time for wallowing when a naked, six foot four inch man tackles you into the water. They sink to the bottom, Sam’s arms wrapped around Dean’s middle. Rolling him across the rockbed.

Head catching up to the situation, Dean pries Sam off and shoots upwards. He breaches the water, gasping for breath.

Sam doesn’t give up that easily. He chases Dean, the brothers swimming closer to the middle. “I’m gonna get you, man.”

“Like hell you will!”

Dean spins to face Sam, startling him. Unable to slow, Sam crashes into Dean. He clings to him, scrambling around to his back. His arms locked around Sam’s neck while his legs try their hardest not to slide off his middle. At few times, when trying to find purchase, his foot brushed against his brother’s crotch. Soon though Dean found a comfortable position that left him as an annoying backpack.

“Try and get me now!”

Sam stops struggling, becoming perfectly still. Fear trembles through Dean’s muscles at the change. He tightens his grip, preparing for the worse.

When Sam falls backwards into the water Dean won’t budge. Again and again, Sam flails around to shake Dean off. Except Dean can hold his breath longer than Sam stays underwater.

“How are you even doing this?”

“Come on, brother, you’ve heard me belt,” Dean scoffs, “I’ve got a powerful diaphragm.”

A sharp whistle cuts across the lake and disturbs a flock of birds, chorused cawing answering. They stop fighting and look to the edge of the lake where Bobby waits.

“Stop foolin’ around you two,” he yells, “I think we’ve let go of all the bad vibes… and the mud… time we hit the road again.”

Sam deflates, Dean sagging against him. “I guess... “ He swims to shore, carrying Dean with no problem. Dean clings to Sam, resting his cheek against his brother’s head. Exhausted, but thankful the storm clouds that threatened to burst were swept away by Sam’s interference.

Dean kisses Sam’s head. “Love you, brother.”

“Love you, too.”

When they reach shore, Dean climbs off of Sam. They stumble onto the grass, dripping, water sluicing off their bodies in perfect droplets. Sam’s hair looks like a chestnut waterfall, swinging with each step he takes towards the van. Dean follows, gratefully accepting the duffle Sam hands him. Sifting through the limited clothing he has Dean chooses his kaftan. He slides it overhead, the thin material sticking to his still wet body. It highlights usually hidden features of his body and leaves _nothing_ to the imagination.

Sam wears a flimsy shirt, also dampened by his refusal to wait and dry off. Waterfall trapped between the fabric and his back leaving a dark, moist spot on the shirt. He steps into a pair of shorts, pulling the cord tight around his waist.

Bobby calls to them again. “One of you come here and help me fold these, will ya?”

Dean shakes his head first, beating Sam. His brother sighs, “Coming Bobby!” He leaves after shoving his duffle into Dean’s chest.

Snickering, Dean packs the duffles into the van and checks on their instruments. Counts them in case they left something behind in Bethel. At least if they needed to drive back it wouldn’t be much of a distance.

As he closes his guitar case Dean’s neck burns with the heat of a powerful stare. Like being under a too bright spotlight. He stills, curiosity churning inside. Glancing to the right shows Bobby and Sam by the lake. Sam holds his kaftan up and dances with it, drying it, while Bobby shakes his head. Aware that another person stumbled into their party, Dean steels his courage.

Except the more he spends under this stranger’s scrutiny, the more Den realizes he isn’t scared. In fact, the attention is almost _familiar_.

He turns.

 _Crystal blue eyes_. It’s him. The man from Woodstock, who he danced and laughed and kissed and _more_ at Jimi’s performance. He stands in the brush, wearing different clothes than he did this morning. The poncho was gone, replaced by worn overalls and a rumpled tan jacket. Rucksack strap across one shoulder and Dean’s bandanna tied across his forehead. His heart flutters at the sight.

“It’s you.”

The stranger nods, smile blooming across his face like the prettiest flower Dean ever laid eyes on. “Yes,” he says, “it’s me.”

For a moment, all they do is stare. Speak emotions without translation between blinks. Express what needs not shared.

Their bubble bursts. Sam and a still nude Bobby stroll up to them, looking from Dean to the stranger. “Hey Dean,” Sam starts, “...Who’s this?”

Dean grins. “It’s my _soulmate_ Sammy.”

“Your soulmate?” Sam parrots, studying the stranger again. “Was he always here… has he been here the whole time -”

Bobby elbows him. Cuts off his rambling mid spiral. “It’s nice to meet him,” he says, “Does your soulmate have a name?”

“Yeah it’s -” Dean’s eyes widen, running into a blank space like it was a wall. “Um, it’s…”

“Castiel,” he says, striding over with his hand outstretched, “My name is Castiel. Or Cas, for short.”

“Cas.” Dean tests the name in his mouth. Tastes it. “ _Cas_.”

“Yes,” he says, “and you’re… _Dean_?”

Sam chuckles, “You’re soulmates but you don’t even know each other’s names?”

Embarrassment creeps up Dean’s neck in scattered blotches. Cas mirrors him, tanned cheeks burning at the realization. Dean shuffles, unsure of what to say next. Especially with Sam and Bobby nearby.

Luckily Bobby swoops in. He clears his throat, “Sam. Before we leave I could use your help… there was this flower bed with the grooviest daisies. I want to grab a bouquet for our van.”

“But where would we even put them -”

“It’ll look real pretty,” Bobby insists, dragging Sam away, “A few strung up by the rearview mirror… scattered in the back…”

Dean and Cas are along again. Unlike before the silence is awkward and stilted. Without the filter of music and drugs Dean doubts what the painter said about the eyes being his soulmate’s.

“So, um,” Cas starts, wringing his hands, “your name is Dean?”

He nods. “Dean Winchester. I play the guitar and - and sing in a band.”

Cas skews his head to the side. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Dean continues, jerking his thumb behind him, “S’why I was at Woodstock. My brother and I performed on Saturday.”

“You _did_?”

“Were you not there Saturday?”

“I was there for all four days,” Cas tells him, “But I was so strung out on acid I don’t really remember much…”

Dean’s spirit deflates. “Oh,” he says, “So, you must not remember -”

“No!” Cas’s voice startles Dean, the deep gravel infused with a mountain of emotions. “I… Yes, my memories are a bit foggy. But there are bits and pieces and… what stands out most was when Jimi Hendrix performed and I met the most beautiful soul.”

His eyes widen. “You really think my soul’s beautiful?” he asks, a tentative smile inching forth.

“And it wasn’t because of the acid,” Cas says, “you shine so brightly I couldn’t look away. You drew me in like a moth to a flame, baby.” He ducks his head, running fingers through his dark curls. “In fact… you were so captivating that I… that I left my tribe in hopes of finding you again.”

“You _what_?” A powerful force rocks into Dean, causing him to stumble. Knees hitting the van and sending him on his ass. He lands on the lip of the van. Cas hurries over, kneeling, cupping Dean’s face. Gazing with sweet, sweet adoration. Dean licks his lips, the memory of Cas’s lips on his compounding the warmth in his chest from hearing the other man’s confession. “You left your tribe… for me?” he asks, “But… but you don’t even know me.”

“I feel like I do,” Cas repeats Dean’s earlier claim, “Like I have… my stuff knows your stuff. And together it’s… better stuff.”

It’s not the most beautiful prose, but Dean thinks Cas sounded like Keats or Ginsberg. He leans and steals a quick kiss, giggling into Cas’s mouth. “I like your stuff.”

“Good.”

The sun starts setting behind them. Before the light rests, though, Dean has a few more questions. “So you left your tribe?” he asks, “How’d they take it?”

“They weren’t thrilled, but understood,” Cas explains, “We’d been travelling for close to two years together… I promised a few of them we’d meet again. Thought Uriel was going to break my spine with how tight he hugged me and Balthazar slipped me a few of his special spliffs from his cousin’s grass farm in England.”

“And you set off to find me…” Horror wrings Dean’s heart. “Wait… you couldn’t though. Because after you left I… _oh no_ …”

“Yes,” Cas nods, “I was very disappointed when you weren’t where I left you.”

“Well I didn’t have much reason to stay,” Dean says, “What with you talking about ships… and needing to leave I - I figured that was all the time we were gifted by the universe. Better to know what could be than to never have experienced it and all that mystic junk…”

“And you were going to accept it?”

“I hoped fate would make us cross paths again,” Dean tells him, “Not as soon as this but… one day. Didn’t you?”

“It might surprise you, Dean, but I’m not really one to believe in _the universe_ and its _mysterious ways_.”

Dean arches his brow. “But you believe in _soulmates_?” he scoffs, “You’re one confusing hippie, man.”

Cas grins, brushing his nose against Dean’s knuckles. “Because we’re not some grand concepts that have been interpreted an innumerable amount of times by different people all aiming to make sense of a senseless existence. We’re two people who found each other in the chaos of Woodstock and made a connection. It’s… it’s like I said when Jimi played ‘The Star Spangled Banner’. All we needed was there… and it’s here. The two of us. Fate, destiny, the universe - it might not be real. But we are. And that’s what matters.”

“So walking back I had a moment of clarity,” he continued, “Why did I let you go? Give up so easily? Like I had no say in the matter! Bullshit! We make the choices, and for me the clouds parted and I knew where I had to go.”

“Except you didn’t,” Dean drawls, cheeks straining from how strong his smile was. “Because I _left_. What… what did you do? After?”

“What most of our people do. I _wandered._ My tribe, like you, disappeared. Alone I faded into the dispersing crowd and let my feet lead me where I was needed. And… it felt like a string, tugging me into the forest. I didn’t know why but I followed. Now here I am, with you. Like -”

“Like it was meant to be,” Dean whispers, shaking with awe. “Are you sure that fate’s a bunch of crock? Because this is _righteous_. I’m already putting together a song…”

Cas laughs, scratching blunt nails against his neck and dragging him into a kiss. Dean accepts it happily, running his hands across Cas’s exposed chest.

They break, resting their foreheads against each other. Breathing in each other with great fervor. “You’re here,” Dean says, “You found me… now what?”

“That’s the most beautiful thing, Dean… we get to decide.”

“Total freedom, baby,” Dean says. His legs sway while he thinks, feet kicking up dirt. Cas serves as his muse. “I _am_ in a band,” he hums, smirking, “can you play?”

Cas frowns, shoulders sagging. “Unfortunately I was born without musical talent.”

“Not even a tambourine?”

“In high school I was in band. They gave me the triangle. I was the first triangle player _kicked out_ of band.”

Dean winces, “That is bad.” He considers another possibility, better than his previous thought. “We don’t have a roadie.”

“A roadie?” Cas asks, “You want me to be a roadie?”

“It’d be perfect for you,” he says, “if you don’t mind close quarters, long nights, and spending every waking moment with the band.”

Cas bites his lip, teasing Dean’s hem with his hand. “Those are some very heavy realities you’re dropping at my feet but… I think I can learn to love this job… among other things.”

“Groovy baby,” Dean kisses him, “Absolutely _groovy_.”

They exchange a few more kisses, delighting in their union once more. With all the air cleared between them, there’s room for more to grow. A seed formed from when they first met in the fields of Woodstock was finally planted. And Dean will encourage it to grow forever.

Anyone who tried to fell the tree that grew from their bond would face a serious reckoning. Dean believes in peace and love, but will readily jump to the offense to protect what he cares about.

Bobby’s voice carries towards them. “...and so Crowley told me about this opportunity in Florida. We show up there and he could get us a tour through England.”

“Wow, looks like you sleeping with someone finally paid off.”

“Shut up, boy…”

Cas stands, facing them. “Hello Sam, Bobby. How were the flowers?”

“Very pretty,” Bobby says, handing one to Cas, “You two sort everything out?”

Dean jumps to his feet, too. Snatches the daisy from Cas and tucks it into his ear. “Yep. He’s coming with us.”

“He is?”

“As our new roadie,” he says, “It’ll be great.”

Bobby studies Cas intently, the other man fidgeting under his stare. “I guess he’ll do,” he shrugs, “Getting too damn old to be carrying all this equipment myself anyhow.”

Sam whines, “Really? Bobby, how come when I ask if we can bring girls you turn me down. But the second Dean finds his ‘ _soulmate_ ’ you hitch him to our wagon?”  
“Because Dean’s not gonna dump his soulmate the second he finds a different face, that’s why,” Bobby tells him, “Now sit in the front with me so we can give them a little privacy.”

“Privacy,” Sam scoffs, dancing to the passenger door, “Are we gonna install a beaded curtain in the van now?”

“Didn’t realize comedy was your passion now,” Bobby says, “Want to be George Carlin when you grow up?”

They slip into the front bench of the van, engine rumbling to life moments later.

Dean grabs Cas’s hand, twining their hands together. “Well Cas?” he asks, “Where you going?”

Cas smiles. “I’m going where the road takes me.”

“Far out?”

“Far out.”

Dean guides Castiel into the back of the van, sprinkled with plucked flowers Sam tossed. He closes the door and quickly fixes the space to be more comfortable. Stacks pillows and flattens the blanket. When Bobby hits the gas, Dean’s nest is ready for hosting.

He and Castiel lie, side by side, while the van rocks them into a safe lull. “We got a long while before we stop again,” Dean says, “why don’t we get started on learning more about each other.”

“That sounds beautiful.”

“Then spin me the tale of your life story, baby.”

Cas clears his throat and squeezes Dean’s hand. “I was born in Western Massachusetts to a very large, very _religious_ family. My father, strict, controlling, and emotionally absent -”

“No kidding!” Dean laughs, “We’ve already got so much in common!”

They peel away layer after layer in the safety of the van. Curled around each other, Dean exposes parts of himself he never voiced aloud. Not even to Sam or Bobby, who listen as well. He shifts, bare feet brushing against Cas’s, letting go of his soulmate’s hand so he can wrap around his waist.

Surrounded by love, Dean never felt so free.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, longer than I expected lol.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Drop a kudos/comment down below!


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